Beyond the bungalow rose a dark strip of woodland, and suddenly, as
Deering's eyes caught sight of it, he became aware that the moon, which
had not appeared before that night, seemed to be lingering cosily among
the trees. Even a victim of May madness hardly sees moons where they do
not exist, but to all intents and purpose this _was_ a moon, a large
round moon, on its way down the horizon in the orderly fashion of elderly
moons. He turned toward the road, then glanced back quickly to make sure
his eyes were not playing tricks upon him. The moon was still there,
blandly staring. His powers of orientation had often been tested; on
hunting and fishing trips he had ranged the wilderness without a compass,
and never come to grief. He was sure that this huge orb was in the north,
where no moon of decent habits has any right to be.
With his eyes glued to this phenomenon, he advanced up the slope. When he
reached the crest of the meadow the moon still hung where he had first
seen it--a most unaccountable moon that apparently lingered to encourage
his investigations.
He jumped a wall that separated the meadow from the woodland, and
advanced resolutely toward the lunar mystery. He found Stygian darkness
in among the pines: the moon, considering its size, shed amazingly little
light. He crept toward it warily, and in a moment stood beneath the
outward and visible form of a moon cleverly contrived of barrel staves
and tissue-paper with a lighted lantern inside, and thrust into the
crotch of a tree.
As he contemplated it something struck him--something, he surmised, that
had been flung by mortal hand, and a pine-cone caught in his waistcoat
collar.
"Please don't spoil my moon," piped a voice out of the darkness. "It's a
lot of trouble to make a moon!"
Walking cautiously toward the wall, he saw, against the star dusk of the
open, the girl in clown costume who had danced in the meadow. She sat the
long way of the wall, her knees clasped comfortably, and seemed in nowise
disturbed by his appearance.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "but I didn't know it was _your_ moon. I
thought it was just the regular old moon that had got lost on the way
home."
"Oh, don't apologize. I rather hoped somebody would come up to have a
look at it; but you'd better run along now. This is private property, you
know."
"Thanks for the hint," he remarked. "But on a night when moons hang in
trees you can't expect me to be scared away so easily. And besides, I'm
an outlaw," he ended in a tone meant to be terrifying.
She betrayed neither surprise nor fear, but laughed and uttered a
"Really!" that was just such a "really" as any well-bred girl might use
at a tea, or anywhere else that reputable folk congregate, to express
faint surprise. Her way of laughing was altogether charming. A girl who
donned a clown's garb for night prowling and manufactured moons for her
own amusement could not have laughed otherwise, he reflected.
"A burglar?" she suggested with mild curiosity.
"Not professionally; but I'm seriously thinking of going in for it. What
do you think of burgling as a career?"
"Interesting--rather--I should think," she replied after a moment's
hesitation, as though she were weighing his suggestion carefully.
"And highway robbery appeals to me--rather. It's more picturesque, and
you wouldn't have to break into houses. I think I'd rather work in the
open."
"The chances of escape might be better," she admitted; "but you needn't
try the bungalow down there, for there's nothing in it worth stealing. I
give you my word for that!"
"Oh, I hadn't thought of the bungalow. I had it in mind to begin by
holding up a motor. Nobody's doing that sort of thing just now."
"Capital!" she murmured pleasantly, as though she found nothing
extraordinary in the idea. "So you're really new at the game."
"Well, I've _stolen_ before, if that's what you mean, but I didn't get
much fun out of it. I suppose after the first fatal plunge the rest will
come easier."
"I dare say that's true," she assented. There was real witchery in the
girl's light, murmurous laugh.
It seemed impossible to surprise her; she was taking him as a matter of
course--as though sitting on a wall at night, and talking to a strange
young man about stealing was a familiar experience.
"I've joined Robin Hood's band," he continued. "At least I've been adopted
by a new sort of Robin Hood who's travelling round robbing the rich to pay
the poor, and otherwise meddling in people's affairs--the old original
Robin Hood brought up to date. If it hadn't been for him I might be cooling
my heels in jail right now. He's an expert on jails--been in nearly every
calaboose in America. He's tucked me under his wing--persuaded me to take
the highway, and not care a hang for anything."
"How delightful!" she replied, but so slowly that he began to fear that
his confidences had alarmed her. "That's too good to be true; you're
fooling, aren't you--really?"
His eyes had grown accustomed to the light, and her profile was now
faintly limned in the dusk. Hers was the slender face of youth. The
silhouette revealed the straightest of noses and the firmest of little
chins. She was young, so young that he felt himself struggling in an
immeasurable gulf of years as he watched her. Apparently such
sophistication as she possessed was in the things of the world of wonder,
the happy land of make-believe.
"Keats would have liked a night like this," she said gently.
Deering was silent. Keats was a person whom he knew only as the subject
of a tiresome lecture in his English course at college.
"Bill Blake would have adored it, but he would have had lambs in the
pasture," she added.
"Bill Blake?" he questioned. "Do you mean Billy Blake who was half-back
on the Harvard eleven last year?"
She tossed her head and laughed merrily.
"I love that!" she replied lingeringly, as though to prolong her joy in
his ignorance. "I was thinking of a poet of that name who wrote a nice
verse something like this:
'I give you the end of a golden string;
Only wind it into a ball,
It will lead you in at Heaven's gate,
Built in Jerusalem's wall.'"
No girl had ever quoted poetry to him before, and he was thinking more of
her pretty way of repeating the stanza--keeping time with her hands--than
of the verse itself.
"Well," he said, "what's the rest of it?"
"Oh, there isn't any rest of it! Don't you see that there couldn't be
anything more--that it's finished--a perfect little poem all by itself!"
He played with a loosened bit of stone, meekly conscious of his
stupidity. And he did not like to appear stupid before a girl who danced
alone in the starlight and hung moons in trees.
"I'm afraid I don't get it. I'd a lot rather stay by this wall talking to
you than go to Jerusalem."
"You'd be foolish to do that if you really had the end of the golden
string, and could follow it to Paradise. I think it means any nice
place--just any place where happiness is."
He was not getting on, and to gain time he bade her repeat the stanza.
"I think I understand now; I've never gone in much for poetry, you know,"
he explained humbly.
"Burglars are natural poets, I suppose," she continued. "A burglar just
has to have imagination or he can't climb through the window of a house
he has never seen before. He must imagine everything perfectly--the
silver on the sideboard, the watch under the pillow, and the butler
stealing down the back stairs with a large, shiny pistol in his hand."
"Certainly," Deering agreed readily. "And if he runs into a policeman on
the way out he's got to imagine that it's an old college friend and
embrace him."
"You mustn't spoil a pretty idea that way!" she admonished in a tone that
greatly softened the rebuke. "Come to think of it, you haven't told me
your name yet; of course, if you become a burglar, you will have a great
number of names, but I'd like awfully to know your true one."
"Why?" he demanded.
"Because you seem nice and well brought up for a burglar, and I liked
your going up to the moon and poking your finger into it. That makes me
feel that I'd like to know you."
"Well, the circumstances being as they are, and being really a thief, you
mustn't ask me to tell my real name; for all I know you may be a
detective in disguise."
"I'm not--really," she said--he found her "reallys" increasingly
enchanting.
"You might call me Friar Tuck or Little John. I'm travelling with Robin
Hood, you remember."
"Mr. Tuck--that will be splendid!"
"And now that you know my name it's only fair to tell me yours."
"Pierrette," she answered.
"Not really!"
His unconscious imitation of her manner of uttering this phrase evoked
another merry laugh.
"Yes, really," she answered.
"And you live somewhere, of course--not in the tree up there with your
moon, but in the bungalow, I suppose."
"I live wherever I am; that's the fun of playing all the time," she
replied evasively. "_Poste restante_, the Little Dipper. How do you like
that?"
"But just now your true domicile is the bungalow?" he persisted.
"Oh, I've been stopping there for a few days, that's all. I haven't any
home--not really," she added as though she found her homelessness the
happiest of conditions. She snapped her fingers and recited:
"Wherever stars shine brightest, there my home shall be,
In the murmuring forest or by the sounding sea,
With overhead the green bough and underfoot the grass,
Where only dreams and butterflies ever dare to pass!"
"Is that Keats or Blake?" he ventured timidly.
"It's _me_, you goose! But it's only an imitation--why, Stevenson, of
course, and pretty punk as you ought to know. Gracious!"
She jumped down from the wall, on the side toward the bungalow, and
stared up at the tree she had embellished with her moon.
"The moon's gone out, and I've got to go _in_!"
"Please, before you go, when can I see you again?"
"Who knows!" she exclaimed unsympathetically; but she waited as though
pondering the matter.
"But I must see you again!" he persisted.
"Oh, I shouldn't say that it was wholly essential to your happiness--or
mine! I can't meet burglars--socially!"
"Burglars! But I'm not--" he cried protestingly.
She bent toward him with one hand extended pleadingly.
"Don't say it! Don't _say_ it! If you say you're _not_, you won't be any
fun any more!"
"Well, then we'll say I am--a terrible freebooter--a bold, bad pirate,"
he growled. "Now, may I come?"
She mused a moment, then struck her hands together.
"Come to the bungalow breakfast; that's a fine idea!"
"And may I bring Hood?" he asked, leaning half-way across the wall in his
anxiety to conclude the matter before she escaped. "He's my boss, you
understand, and I'm afraid I can't shake him."
"Certainly; bring Mr. Hood. Breakfast at eight."
"And your home--your address--is there in the bungalow?"
"I've told you where my home is, in a verse I made up specially; and my
address is care of the Little Dipper--there it is, up there in the sky,
all nice and silvery."
His gaze followed the pointing of her finger. The Little Dipper, as an
address for the use of mortals, struck him as rather remote. To his
surprise she advanced to the wall, rested her hands upon it, and peered
into his face.
"Isn't this perfectly killing?" she asked in a tone wholly different from
that in which she had carried on her share of the colloquy.
He experienced an agreeable thrill as it flashed upon him that this was
no child, but a young woman who, knowing the large world, had suddenly
awakened to a consciousness that encounters with strange young men by
starlight were not to be prolonged forever. In the luminous dusk he noted
anew the delicate perfectness of her face, the fine brow about which her
hair had tumbled from her late exertions. Her eyes searched his face with
honest curiosity--for an instant only.
Then she stepped back, as though to mark a return to her original
character, and answered her own question with an air of amused
conviction:
"It _is_ perfectly killing!"
His hand fumbled the cap in his pocket.
"Here's something I found down yonder--your clown's cap."
She took it with a murmur of thanks, and darted away toward the bungalow.
He heard her light step on the veranda and then a door closed with a
sharp bang.
Deering walked back to the inn with his head high and elation throbbing
in his pulses. He observed groups of people playing bridge in the inn
parlor, and he was filled with righteous contempt for them. The May air
had changed his whole nature. He was not the William B. Deering who had
meditated killing himself a few hours earlier. A new joy had entered into
him; he was only afraid now that he might not live forever!
Hood slept tranquilly, his bed littered with the afternoon's New York
papers which evidently he had been scissoring when he fell asleep.
Deering's attitude toward the strange vagrant had changed since his
meeting with Pierrette. Hood might be as mad as the traditional hatter,
and yet there was something--indubitably something--about the man that
set him apart from the common run of mortals.
Deering lay awake a long time rejoicing in his new life, and when he
dreamed it was of balloon-like moons cruising lazily over woods and
fields, pursued by innumerable Pierrettes in spotted trousers and pointed
caps.
V
He awoke at seven, and looked in upon Hood, who lay sprawled upon his bed
reading one of the battered volumes of Borrow he carried in his bag.
"Get your tub, son; I've had mine and came back to bed to let you have
your sleep out. Marvellous man--Borrow. Spring's the time to read him.
We'll have some breakfast and go out and see what the merry old world has
to offer."
With nice calculation he tossed the book into the open bag on the further
side of the room, rose, and stretched himself. Deering stifled an impulse
to scoff at his silk pajamas as hardly an appropriate sleeping garb for
one who professed to have taken vows of poverty. Hood noted his glance.
"Found these in some nabob's house at Bar Harbor last fall. Went up in
November, after all the folks had gone, to have a look at the steely blue
ocean; camped in a big cottage for a few days. Found a drawer full of
these things and took the pink ones. Wrote my thanks on the villa's
stationery and pinned 'em to the fireplace. I hate to admit it, son, but
I verily believe I could stand a little breakfast."
"We're going out for breakfast," Deering remarked with affected
carelessness. "I accepted an invitation for you last night. A girl up
there at the bungalow asked me; I told her about you, and she seemed
willing to stand for it."
"The thought pleases me! You are certainly doing well, my boy!" Hood
replied, dancing about on one foot as he drew a sock on the other.
He explained that a man should never sit down while dressing; that the
exercise he got in balancing himself was of the greatest value as a
stimulus to the circulation.
"She's a very nice girl, I think," Deering continued, showing his
lathered face at the bathroom door.
He hadn't expected Hood to betray surprise, and he was not disappointed
in the matter-of-course fashion in which his companion received the
invitation.
"Breakfast is the one important meal of the day," Hood averred as he
executed a series of hops in his efforts to land inside his trousers.
"All great adventures should be planned across breakfast tables;
centrepiece of cool fruits; coffee of teasing fragrance, the toast crisp;
an egg perhaps, if the morning labors are to be severe. I know a chap in
Boston who cuts out breakfast altogether. Most melancholy person I ever
knew; peevish till one o'clock, then throws in a heavy lunch that ruins
him for the rest of the day. What did you say the adorable's name was?"
"Pierrette," Deering spluttered from the tub.
"Delightful!" cried Hood, flourishing his hair-brushes. "Then you met the
dancing-girl! I must say----"
"She had hung a moon in a tree! I followed the moon and found the girl!"
"Always the way; it never fails," Hood commented, as though the finding
of the girl had fully justified his philosophy of life. "But we can't
fool away much time at the bungalow; we've got a lot to do to-day."
"Time!" cried Deering, "I'm going to stay forever! You can't expect me to
find a girl whose post-office address is the Little Dipper, and then go
coolly off and forget about her!"
"That's the right spirit, son," Hood remarked cautiously; "but we'll see.
I'll have a look at her and decide what's best for you. My business right
now is to keep you out of trouble. You can't tell about these moon girls;
she may have a wart on her nose when you see her in daylight."
Deering hooted.
"And she probably has parents who may not relish the idea of having two
strange men prowling about the premises looking for breakfast. There are
still a few of those old-fashioned people left in the world. It may be
only a backdoor hand-out for us, but I've sawed wood for breakfast before
now. I'll wait for you below; I want to see how old Cassowary's standing
the racket. The boy seemed a little cheerfuller last night."
They walked to the bungalow which, to Deering's relief, was still perched
on the ridge as he had left it. He was beset with misgivings as they
entered the gate and followed a hedge-lined path that rose gradually to
the house; it might be a joke after all; but Hood's manner was
reassuring. He swung his stick and praised the landscape, and when they
reached the veranda banged the knocker noisily. A capped and aproned maid
opened the door immediately.
Deering, struck with cowardice, found his legs quaking and stepped back
to allow Hood to declare their purpose.
"We have come for breakfast, lass," Hood announced, "and have brought our
appetites with us if that fact interests you."
"You are expected," said the maid; "breakfast will be served
immediately."
She led the way across a long living-room to the dining-room beyond,
where a table was set for three. The tangible presence of the third plate
caused Deering's heart to thump.
"The host or hostess--?" Hood inquired as the girl waited for them to be
seated.
"The lady of the house wished me to say that she would be here--in
spirit! Pressing duties called her elsewhere."
Deering's spirits sank. Pierrette, then, was only a dream of the night,
and had never had the slightest intention of meeting him at breakfast!
The maid curtsied and vanished through a swing door.
Hood, accepting the situation as he found it, expressed his satisfaction
as a bowl of strawberries was placed on the table, and as the door ceased
swinging behind the maid, laid his hand on Deering's arm. "Don't worry;
mere shyness has driven our divinity away: you can see for yourself that
even a girl who hangs moons in trees might shrink from the shock of a
daylight meeting with a gentleman she had found amusing by starlight. Let
it suffice that she provided the breakfast according to schedule--that's
highly encouraging. With strawberries at present prices she has been
generous. This little disappointment merely adds zest to the adventure."
The hand of the maid as she changed his plate at once interested Deering.
It was a slender, supple, well-kept hand, browned by the sun. Her maid's
dress was becoming; her cap merely served to invite attention to her
golden-brown hair. Her coloring left nothing for the heart to desire, and
her brown eyes called immediately for a second glance. She was deft and
quick; her graceful walk in itself compelled admiration. As the door
closed upon her, Hood bent a look of inquiry upon his brooding companion.
"Perhaps she's the adorable--the true, authentic Pierrette," he
suggested.
Deering shook his head.
"No; the other girl was not so tall and her voice was different; it was
wonderfully sweet and full of laughter. I couldn't be fooled about it."
"There's mystery here--a game of some kind. Mark the swish of silken
skirts; unless my eyes fail me, I caught a glimpse of silken hose as she
flitted into the pantry."
When an omelet had been served and the coffee poured (she poured coffee
charmingly!) Hood called her back as she was about to leave them.
"Two men should never be allowed to eat alone. If your mistress is not
returning at once, will you not do us the honor to sit down with us?"
"Thank you, sir," she said, biting her lip to conceal a smile.
Deering was on his feet at once and drew out the third chair, which she
accepted without debate. She composedly folded her arms on the edge of
the table as though she were in nowise violating the rules set down for
the guidance of waitresses. Hood, finding the situation to his taste,
blithely assumed the lead in the conversation.
"It is perfectly proper for you to join us at table," he remarked, "but
formal introductions would not be in keeping. Still, your employer
doubtless has some familiar name for you, and you might with propriety
tell us what it is, so we won't need to attract your attention by
employing the vulgar 'Say' or 'Listen'!"
"My mistress calls me Babette," she answered, her lashes drooping
becomingly.
"Perfect!" cried Hood ecstatically. "And we are two outlaws whose names
it is more discreet for us to withhold, even if it were proper to
exchange names with a mere housemaid."
Deering winced; it was indecent in Hood to treat her as though she were a
housemaid when so obviously she was not.
"My friend doesn't mean to be rude," he explained; "the morning air
always makes him a little delirious."
"I hope I know my place," the girl replied, "and I'm sure you gentlemen
mean to be kind."
"You needn't count the spoons after we leave," said Hood; "I assure you
we have no professional designs on the house."
"Thank you, sir. Of course, if you stole anything, it would be taken out
of my wages."
Deering's interest in her increased.
She rested her chin on her hand just as his sister often did when they
lingered together at table. He was a good brother and Constance was his
standard. He was sure that Constance would like Pierrette's maid. He
resented Hood's patronizing attitude toward the girl, but Hood's spirits
were soaring and there was no checking him.
"Babette," he began, "I'm going to trouble you with a question, not
doubting you will understand that my motives are those of a philosopher
whose whole life has been devoted to the study of the human race. May I
ask you to state in all sincerity whether you consider apple sauce the
essential accompaniment of roast duck?"
"I do not; nor do I care for jelly with venison," she answered readily.
"Admirable! You are clearly no child of convention but an independent
thinker! May I smoke? Thanks!"
He drew out his pipe and turned beaming to the glowering Deering.
"There, my boy! Babette is one of us--one of the great company of the
stars! Wonderful, how you find them at every turn! Babette, my sister, I
salute you!"
She smiled and turned toward Deering.
"Are you, too, one of the Comrades of Perpetual Youth?" she inquired
gravely.
"I am," Deering declared heartily, and they smiled at each other; "but
I'm only a novice--a brother of the second class."
She shook her head.
"There can be no question of classes in the great comradeship--either we
are or we are not."
"Well spoken!" Hood assented, pushing back his chair and crossing his
legs comfortably.
"And you--do you and Pierrette think about things the same way?" Deering
asked.
"We do--by not thinking," Babette replied. "Thinking among the comrades
is forbidden, is it not?"
"Absolutely," Hood affirmed. "Our young brother here is still a little
weak in the faith, but he's taking to it splendidly."
"I'm new myself," Babette confessed.
"You're letter-perfect in the part," said Hood. "Perhaps you were driven
to it? Don't answer if you would be embarrassed by a confession."
The girl pondered a moment; her face grew grave, and she played nervously
with the sugar-tongs.
"A man loved me and I sent him away, and was sorry!" The last words fell
from her lips falteringly.
"He will come back--if he is worthy of one of the comradeship," said Hood
consolingly. "Even now he may be searching for you."
"I was unkind to him; I was very hard on him! And I've been
afraid--sometimes--that I should never see him again."
Deering thought he saw a glint of tears in her eyes. She rose hastily and
asked with a wavering smile:
"If there's nothing further----"
"Not food--if you mean that," said Hood.
"But about Pierrette!" Deering exclaimed despairingly. "If she's likely
to come, we must wait for her."
"I rather advise you against it," the girl answered. "I have no idea when
she will come back."
They rose instinctively as she passed out. The door fanned a moment and
was still.
"Well?" demanded Deering ironically.
"Please don't speak to me in that tone," responded Hood. "This was your
breakfast, not mine; you needn't scold me if it didn't go to suit you!
Ah, what have we here!"
He had drawn back a curtain at one end of the dining-room, disclosing a
studio beyond. It was evidently a practical workshop and bore traces of
recent use. Deering passed him and strode toward an easel that supported
a canvas on which the paint was still wet. He cried out in astonishment:
"That's the moon girl--that's the girl I talked to last night--clown
clothes and all! She's sitting on the wall there just as I found her."
"A sophisticated brush; no amateur's job," Hood muttered, squinting at
the canvas. "Seems to me I've seen that sort of thing somewhere
lately--Pantaloon, Harlequin, Columbine, and Clown--latest fad in
magazine covers. We're in the studio of a popular illustrator--there's a
bunch of proofs on the table, and those things on the floor are from the
same hand. Signature in the corner a trifle obscure--Mary B. Taylor."
"She may be Babette," Deering suggested. "Suppose I call her and ask?"
Hood, having become absorbed in a portfolio of pen-and-ink sketches of
clowns, harlequins, and columbines, subjects in which the owner of the
studio apparently specialized, paid no heed to the suggestion. When
Deering returned he was gazing critically at a sketch showing a dozen
clowns executing a spirited dance on a garden-wall.
"She's skipped! There isn't a soul on the place," Deering announced
dejectedly.
"Not at all surprising; probably gone to join her model, Pierrette. And
we'd better clear out before we learn too much; life ceases to be
interesting when you begin to find the answers to riddles. Pierrette is
probably a friend of the artist, and plays model for the fun of it. The
same girl is repeated over and over again in these drawings--from which I
argue that Pierrette likes to pose and Babette enjoys painting her. We
mustn't let this affect the general illusion. The next turn of the road
will doubtless bring us to something that can't be explained so easily."
"If it doesn't bring us to Pierrette--" began Deering.
"Tut! None of that! For all you know it may bring us to something
infinitely better. Remember that this is mid-May, and anything may happen
before June kindles the crimson ramblers. Let us be off."
Half-way across the living-room Deering stopped suddenly.
"My bag--my suitcase!" he shouted.
A suitcase it was beyond question, placed near the door as though to
arrest their attention. Deering pounced upon it eagerly and flung it
open.
"It's all right--the stuff's here!" he cried huskily.
He began throwing out the packets that filled the case, glancing
hurriedly at the seals. Hood lounged near, watching him languidly.
"Most unfortunate," he remarked, noting the growing satisfaction on
Deering's face as he continued his examination. "Now that you've found
that rubbish, I suppose there'll be no holding you; you'll go back to
listen to the ticker just when I had begun to have some hope of you!"
"It was Pierrette that took it; it couldn't have been this artist girl,"
said Deering, excitedly whipping out his penknife and slitting one of the
packages. A sheaf of blank wrapping-paper fluttered to the floor. His
face whitened and he gave a cry of dismay. "Robbed! Tricked!" he groaned,
staring at Hood.
Hood picked up the paper and scrutinized the seal.
"S. J. Deering, personal," he read in the wax. "You don't suppose that
girl has taken the trouble to forge your father's private seal, do you?"
Deering feverishly tore open the other packages.
"All alike; the stuff's gone!"
Perspiration beaded his forehead. He stared stupidly at the worthless
paper.
"You ought to be grateful, son," said Hood; "yesterday you thought
yourself a thief--now that load's off your mind, and you know yourself
for an honest man. General rejoicing seems to be in order. Looks as
though your parent had robbed himself--rather a piquant situation, I must
say."
He carried the wrappers to the window-seat and examined them more
closely.
"Seals were all intact. 'The Tyringham estate,'" he read musingly. "What
do you make of that?" he asked Deering, who remained crumpled on the
floor beside the suitcase.
"That's an estate father was executor of--it's a long story. Old man
Tyringham had been a customer of his, and left a will that made it
impossible to close the estate till his son had reached a certain age.
The final settlement was to be made this summer. But my God, Hood, do you
suppose father--my father could be----"
"A defaulter?" Hood supplied blandly.
"It's impossible!" roared Deering. "Father's the very soul of honor."
"I dare say he is," remarked Hood carelessly. "So were you till greed led
you to pilfer your governor's strong box. Let us be tolerant and withhold
judgment. It's enough that your own skirts are clear. Put that stuff out
of sight; we must flit."
Hood set off for the Barton Arms at a brisk pace, talking incessantly.
"This whole business is bully beyond my highest expectations. By George,
it's almost too good to be true! Critics of the drama complain that the
average amateur's play ends with every act; but so far in our adventures
every incident leads on to something else. Perfectly immense that
somebody had beaten you to the bonds!"
Deering's emotions were beyond utterance. It was a warm morning, and he
did not relish carrying the suitcase, whose recovery had plunged him into
a despair darker than that caused by its loss.
At a turn in the road Hood paused, struck his stick heavily upon the
ground, and drew out the slipper. He whirled it in the air three times
and twice it pointed east. He thrust it back into his pocket with a sigh
of satisfaction and brushed the dust from his hands.
"Once more we shall follow the pointing slipper. Yesterday it led us to
the moon girl, the bungalow, and the suitcase; now it points toward the
mysterious east, and no telling what new delights!"